| Big Red |
It was one of those bars you could find at any beach, although this one was in Venice Beach California. On the street leading to the
pier, fog hanging on the tops of the street lights like a smoke filled room, it was sitting alone in a row of tourist trap gift stores,
filled with hula girl bobble dolls, and post card racks. I don't remember the name, but it was a place that smelled of 1950's
cigarettes, and 1940's wine. There were split bamboo poles on the walls which were covered with some tacky burlap kind of
wallpaper, and palm fronds hanging from an awning above the bar. The space was long and narrow, with the bar on the left and two
seater tables on the right. The floor was concrete covered with saw dust, and the place was just dark enough, if you didn't wanna
really know what the broad you were talking to looked like. Ya, you see, I was right! You have been there before.
The bartender was an old gal, named Margie, with the look of a hard life on her face, but an infectious smile, and soft voice that
warmed the place up. I ordered a root beer, and she brought over a mug with three fourths foam, and asked me to stick my finger in
it. She said it was a trick any root beer drinker should know, and was a lot faster than her sitting there waiting for the foam to go
down. I stuck my finger into the foam, and when I did I popped a few bubbles. It started a chain reaction each bubble popping
more and those in turn popping even more, until in a matter of seconds the foam was gone. Damnedest thing I ever saw.
That's right I was drinking root beer. I never was one for ruining a good high with stale tap beer. I'm strictly one of those shots of
Absolut straight out the freezer kind of guys, although rumor has it I've been seen with a tall glass of warm burgundy now and then.
I grabbed my now filled mug of Hires on tap's finest, and walked to the end of the bar, hung a left at the antique popcorn cart,
popping away like fire crackers on Chinese New Year, and walked into the back room. There was about 20 sets of quarters on the
rail, and 20 guys they belonged to, waiting their turn to take on Big Red in some eight ball.
I'd been to the bar a few times. It was a place where you could bet and no one bothered to notice the gambling. But I'd never seen
Big Red there before. Red was like a 6 foot oasis of beauty afloat on a sea of drunkards and fools. She had bright red hair, and
high cheek bones. Long waisted and a set of legs that didn't stop till they got to her navel, and one of those low slung butts that
usually meant they had some good moves in bed. The funny thing is she was good. Real damn good. At pool that is. This gal was a class
A pool hustler, cleaning everybody's clock. A devotee of the bar pool table arts.
Myself I liked straight pool on a regulation size table, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to have a go at her, so now there were
21 sets of quarters on the rail. Well, not all of them were sets. I always carried around a quarter, splashed with red nail polish on
both sides. There was no arguing who's it was when it got to the head of the line. So I watched Red run the table 2 times in a row,
and went back to the bar. I was thinking it was gonna be a shorter wait than I thought. I grabbed one of those plastic weaved bowls
that are usually filled with French fries, and went to fill it with popcorn, and grabbing a seat at a table where I could watch the
action.
Roger strolled in, in his usual attire of grease covered gray work pants and shirt, with a sewn on patch that said Bill. He was a
Mercedes Benz mechanic, and always seemed to have greasy hands, and the smell of 90 weight gear oil. I often wondered if he
splashed that shit behind his ears, like some kind of industrial strength after shave. We talked a bit, and he told me Red had been
there a couple of days, and so far was unbeatable. Well everyone has to lose some time or other, and after a bit more meaningless
chit chat, my quarter was up and it was time for her to go down.
"So how do sweetie, you're sure a looker" Ya I was ready to start rollin' now! "If you can fuck as good as you shoot pool I wouldn't
mind taking you home after I beat you"
"Why don't you save the creep show talk and shove it buddy!" Ya I knew it wouldn't take much to get her Irish blood boiling. she
took a second to look me over and size me up. "So you think you can beat me? How's this? Why not put your money where your big
mouth is. I'd say at least $50 should be a fair fee to charge you to find out you can't beat me." If looks could kill the cop's would
have been answering a mass murder call about now.
"$50 sounds fine with me sweet cakes. Winners choice. You wanna break or let me?"
She looked at me with that annoyed fire in her eye and said "Rack em sweet cakes." I thought see was gonna drill a hole right
through the little blue cube, she was chalking that tip so hard.
I racked up the balls and tossed the rack under the table. She checked the rack to make sure it was tight. As she was bent over to
check it out, I was checking out her rack from the opening in the top of that silk blouse. Silver Dollar nipples like quarter moons
shining through a brown smog filled haze peeked out over the top of her lace bra. Nice. She went to the end of the table, leaned
forward and started stroking her cue to break. That's when I made my move!
"Hey sweet cakes, have you ever noticed how there has never been any really great woman pool players? That's because they have
the wrong kind of body. It has to do with the bones and how they move and stuff. They are just not made right for this game. That's
why they are always better off playing with other women. So what's the hold up here? You gonna break or what baby butt?"
Ya, game over. Pool is a game of skill and concentration. But by now, this broad was so pissed she couldn't shoot worth a shit. She
mis-cued on the break, and I ran 6 balls. She made the next one, but got herself hooked because her stroke was off and the English
didn't take hold like she wanted. She tried a safe shot, but it rolled out just a tad too far…for her! It was easy pickings for me. The
blue 2 in the side and some English to roll me up to the top and it was 8 ball in the corner, game over. Being the miserable son-of-a-
bitch that I can be, I walked over and held out my hand.
"You know sweetie this $50 is gonna buy me an eighth O Z of some good bud. So are you interested in my offer to come over to my
place, since you don't have anything to do here?" Ain't I a cad though?
"You're a fucking sleaze bag and I wouldn't even let you walk me to my car"
The poor thing. Pissed to no end and totally embarrassed. She almost knocked over the chair her purse was hanging from as she
grabbed it and stormed out the door.
"Cest la Vie bébé." I rolled me a smoke, and called to Margie for seconds on the foam thing. "So which one of you Willie Moscone
wannabees has the next quarter anyway. I'm still a couple bucks short to buy some bud"
pier, fog hanging on the tops of the street lights like a smoke filled room, it was sitting alone in a row of tourist trap gift stores,
filled with hula girl bobble dolls, and post card racks. I don't remember the name, but it was a place that smelled of 1950's
cigarettes, and 1940's wine. There were split bamboo poles on the walls which were covered with some tacky burlap kind of
wallpaper, and palm fronds hanging from an awning above the bar. The space was long and narrow, with the bar on the left and two
seater tables on the right. The floor was concrete covered with saw dust, and the place was just dark enough, if you didn't wanna
really know what the broad you were talking to looked like. Ya, you see, I was right! You have been there before.
The bartender was an old gal, named Margie, with the look of a hard life on her face, but an infectious smile, and soft voice that
warmed the place up. I ordered a root beer, and she brought over a mug with three fourths foam, and asked me to stick my finger in
it. She said it was a trick any root beer drinker should know, and was a lot faster than her sitting there waiting for the foam to go
down. I stuck my finger into the foam, and when I did I popped a few bubbles. It started a chain reaction each bubble popping
more and those in turn popping even more, until in a matter of seconds the foam was gone. Damnedest thing I ever saw.
That's right I was drinking root beer. I never was one for ruining a good high with stale tap beer. I'm strictly one of those shots of
Absolut straight out the freezer kind of guys, although rumor has it I've been seen with a tall glass of warm burgundy now and then.
I grabbed my now filled mug of Hires on tap's finest, and walked to the end of the bar, hung a left at the antique popcorn cart,
popping away like fire crackers on Chinese New Year, and walked into the back room. There was about 20 sets of quarters on the
rail, and 20 guys they belonged to, waiting their turn to take on Big Red in some eight ball.
I'd been to the bar a few times. It was a place where you could bet and no one bothered to notice the gambling. But I'd never seen
Big Red there before. Red was like a 6 foot oasis of beauty afloat on a sea of drunkards and fools. She had bright red hair, and
high cheek bones. Long waisted and a set of legs that didn't stop till they got to her navel, and one of those low slung butts that
usually meant they had some good moves in bed. The funny thing is she was good. Real damn good. At pool that is. This gal was a class
A pool hustler, cleaning everybody's clock. A devotee of the bar pool table arts.
Myself I liked straight pool on a regulation size table, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to have a go at her, so now there were
21 sets of quarters on the rail. Well, not all of them were sets. I always carried around a quarter, splashed with red nail polish on
both sides. There was no arguing who's it was when it got to the head of the line. So I watched Red run the table 2 times in a row,
and went back to the bar. I was thinking it was gonna be a shorter wait than I thought. I grabbed one of those plastic weaved bowls
that are usually filled with French fries, and went to fill it with popcorn, and grabbing a seat at a table where I could watch the
action.
Roger strolled in, in his usual attire of grease covered gray work pants and shirt, with a sewn on patch that said Bill. He was a
Mercedes Benz mechanic, and always seemed to have greasy hands, and the smell of 90 weight gear oil. I often wondered if he
splashed that shit behind his ears, like some kind of industrial strength after shave. We talked a bit, and he told me Red had been
there a couple of days, and so far was unbeatable. Well everyone has to lose some time or other, and after a bit more meaningless
chit chat, my quarter was up and it was time for her to go down.
"So how do sweetie, you're sure a looker" Ya I was ready to start rollin' now! "If you can fuck as good as you shoot pool I wouldn't
mind taking you home after I beat you"
"Why don't you save the creep show talk and shove it buddy!" Ya I knew it wouldn't take much to get her Irish blood boiling. she
took a second to look me over and size me up. "So you think you can beat me? How's this? Why not put your money where your big
mouth is. I'd say at least $50 should be a fair fee to charge you to find out you can't beat me." If looks could kill the cop's would
have been answering a mass murder call about now.
"$50 sounds fine with me sweet cakes. Winners choice. You wanna break or let me?"
She looked at me with that annoyed fire in her eye and said "Rack em sweet cakes." I thought see was gonna drill a hole right
through the little blue cube, she was chalking that tip so hard.
I racked up the balls and tossed the rack under the table. She checked the rack to make sure it was tight. As she was bent over to
check it out, I was checking out her rack from the opening in the top of that silk blouse. Silver Dollar nipples like quarter moons
shining through a brown smog filled haze peeked out over the top of her lace bra. Nice. She went to the end of the table, leaned
forward and started stroking her cue to break. That's when I made my move!
"Hey sweet cakes, have you ever noticed how there has never been any really great woman pool players? That's because they have
the wrong kind of body. It has to do with the bones and how they move and stuff. They are just not made right for this game. That's
why they are always better off playing with other women. So what's the hold up here? You gonna break or what baby butt?"
Ya, game over. Pool is a game of skill and concentration. But by now, this broad was so pissed she couldn't shoot worth a shit. She
mis-cued on the break, and I ran 6 balls. She made the next one, but got herself hooked because her stroke was off and the English
didn't take hold like she wanted. She tried a safe shot, but it rolled out just a tad too far…for her! It was easy pickings for me. The
blue 2 in the side and some English to roll me up to the top and it was 8 ball in the corner, game over. Being the miserable son-of-a-
bitch that I can be, I walked over and held out my hand.
"You know sweetie this $50 is gonna buy me an eighth O Z of some good bud. So are you interested in my offer to come over to my
place, since you don't have anything to do here?" Ain't I a cad though?
"You're a fucking sleaze bag and I wouldn't even let you walk me to my car"
The poor thing. Pissed to no end and totally embarrassed. She almost knocked over the chair her purse was hanging from as she
grabbed it and stormed out the door.
"Cest la Vie bébé." I rolled me a smoke, and called to Margie for seconds on the foam thing. "So which one of you Willie Moscone
wannabees has the next quarter anyway. I'm still a couple bucks short to buy some bud"
